#silvreflames

" you know, no one would believe me if i told them you were basically a walking human interest piece. " lois files away the idea for a slow news week, although part of her is certain that her friend wouldn't want to call attention to all the good she does. nesta archeron has never appeared to seek accolade. at least, not to her. and lois considers herself a pretty good judge of character.

" now tell me, what book did the kiddos get the benefit of hearing today? 'cause i don't know if i ever told you, i've got pretty strong opinions. like for instance? goodnight moon is a total crock of shit. " no one ever said she was politically correct.

She refuses the tea. He does not question the motive (likely to scorn him), but he does briefly wonder at her taste. At every turn, Nesta Archeron rebukes what she can if it suits her to do so and it seems to suit her most often. So her tea goes cold and Rhysand thinks, what a waste. Of a temporary white flag, yes, but mostly of tea. After all, he makes excellent tea.

Rhysand does not cower under her heavy stare. Lesser men would. Most men would. And perhaps he ought, if that fire kept to simmer in her eyes is anything to blanch at. But he simply sips from his own cup of still warm chai and regards her just as coolly from his side of the desk between them. Where @silvreflames sits tall and proud and unerring in her blatant rejection of this interaction, Rhysand leans back and smiles. “And when you do, what will I do without Cassian?” Before she can open her mouth, he sets his cup down and shifts forward, brow arching challengingly, game as ever for the inevitable volley she readies. “Surely you would not leave him here. Or am I to care for your devastated mate when you desert us?”

" oh, please — you can't possibly be having second doubts. " brooke takes a step back to admire her handiwork and just how nesta wears the piece. it was made for her — quite literally. " you know this is your color. own it. "

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬,  where only a mouse or doe may happen upon it.  w̳i̳t̳h̳o̳u̳t̳ ̳d̳i̳s̳c̳u̳s̳s̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳i̳t̳,  thorn and murtagh ended up 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 a life to hide themselves within  ‒‒‒‒‒  a private, ever-changing home beneath 𝑎 𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 where they might camouflage 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 as well as lick them.  and yet he keeps stumbling into 𝖚𝖓𝖛𝖊𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 the parts of himself that are hurting still,  keeps having to speak 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 on the way out of his mouth.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 wineskin passes back and forth like a burning torch,  like a tourney lance. in the end he can never help but 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡.  leaving,  being 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎  ‒‒‒‒‒  is there a gentle way to say i have tried both?  somewhere in the distance,  thorn's great chest 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕. feels, again, his rider’s l̳i̳t̳t̳l̳e̳ ̳h̳e̳a̳r̳t̳ packed too tight with rage and shame,  too devoid of hope. yes, there is 𝖆 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖗 irony to being hard to kill. 

there used to be a time, growing up, when you admired nesta's ability to stay regal at all times. you'd wear your heart on your sleeve, and it'd show on your face whenever you were angry. it happened a lot - you were angry quite a lot.

nesta would also be angry, but she'd conceal it so well, that you had to squint and look to be able to see it, past the perfectly polished doll that your mother bred. mother said you were a wild little beast, untamable and messy; back then, it would hurt, and a part of you would resent nesta for being the one always having your mother's attention. but now, as you look at your sister and notice the cracks on her that begin to show even as she fights desperately to conceal them, you realize that as much as you are damaged goods, so is she. so is elain.

the archeron sisters were bred from calamity, wrath, and misery.

There must be so much to do in Velaris. Not that Gwyn would know. Gwyn, who hardly leaves one of hardly a handful of places. Gwyn, who keeps to her books and her ribbons and her miniscule circle of friends. What would she know much of adventure except what she reads in her books? Not much at all. When she was a girl, days were so rarely passed doing nothing. Catrin dragged her around by the wrist if she was ever reluctant and so she was always up to something. But nowadays it’s a little bit frightening to think past the library or the training ring or the House.

Gwyn cradles Nesta’s wrist gently in her hands as she measures out a length of string for a new bracelet. It’s deep red and would deepen the freckles along Gwyn’s arm if she wore it. For @silvreflames, it’s a pretty contrast to the dark colors she always wears. And perhaps Gwyn’s feeling a little romantic and mischievous.

“Are you going to leave me, Nesta Archeron?” Gwyn lifts her face from her task and scrutinizes her friend with an arched brow. Her question is accusatory, but her mouth twists playfully and there really can’t be much doubt that Gwyn isn’t only teasing her. The Priestess’ features soften nonetheless. “I’m sure there is. Would you go somewhere else if you could?” Gwyn suspects already. But she waits patiently for Nesta to confirm and smiles as if to reassure that it’s safe to do so.